The Night Courier – Part 1: Last Delivery

"You're late," said Kwame.

"By four minutes."

"I was starting to worry." Kwame leaned in the doorway of the bakery, flour on his forearms, an apron tied around narrow hips, a pencil behind one ear. Behind him the oven glowed orange and the whole street smelled of warm bread.

Antoine, thirty, a bike courier, had pedalled across half of Lyon in the dark with a box of vanilla pods on the back of his bike. His legs ached, his coat was damp and the cobbles had tried to throw him twice. He had not expected the door at the end of the road to open on this.

"Sign here," he said, holding out the tablet.

Kwame signed with a flourish. Then he looked at the clock. "I have a tray of brioche about to come out. You want one? Fresh."

"I'm not supposed to stop."

"I'm not going to tell your boss."

Antoine leaned his bike against the wall. The brioche was hot and soft, glossy with egg wash, and sweet enough to make him close his eyes. Kwame watched him eat, grinning, then handed him a mug of coffee.

"Kwame," said the baker, offering a flour-dusted hand. "I make bread until six."

"Antoine. I deliver things until five."

"Then we have an hour."

They stood in the doorway talking until the sky turned grey. Antoine learned about Kwame's grandmother in Accra, the long years in Paris kitchens, the strange peace of working while the city slept. When the dawn came, Kwame handed him a paper bag of warm rolls.

"Come back tomorrow," he said.

"I'll have a delivery."

"Then I'll have brioche." Kwame hesitated. "And if you'd like, I would like to kiss you at the door. Tomorrow. If you agree."

Continue the story: Part 2 – First Light.

Continue the story: Part 2 – First Light.